January 1984

All my writing in the garbage can,
Deodorant sent from someone else’s mother,
Christmas gifts from strangers.

Packing to leave the psych ward
For a mental hospital in Westchester
Where, they’ll say, an old woman,
Heir to Gilded Age money,
Spends her last days.

I imagine she has a whole floor to herself,
Muffled and dark with thick carpets,
While below her,
Removed from the current of life,
We try to convince them
That we are fine
And the world is wrong.


Emerald and snow


The way in.